Scars and Scotch
by Geekdom is Wisdom
Summary: When Loki happens across a drunk Stark, it forces both of them to confront their self-destruction. Frostiron, one-shot, trigger warning for self-harm.


The last few months had not been easy on either of Stark Tower's residents.

The alcoholic insomniac and his Asgardian bedbug had both sunken to a state of utter desolation, a fact that did not escape the notices of either one. A short, awkward conversation had ensued a week or two prior, but it took a true confrontation to catalyst the discussion, for the denial of the former and the pride of the latter meant that the issues could have been tiptoed around indefinitely, had chance not made it otherwise.

Not unusually, Loki had spent the day in his library – a characteristically extravagant gift from Tony – and returned upstairs to the penthouse as the sun began to set. Stepping out of the elevator, the strong scent of alcohol hit his nostrils, burning his throat.

"Stark?" he called out, subdued anger in his voice.

"Loki?" came the surprised reply from behind the bar. "I thought you were gone for the night."

"No, I just went out to buy some books." Loki answered blankly, striding across and peering behind the counter, only to find Tony sitting on the floor, slumped against the cupboards.

"Ah, good, great. I was just, uh, resting." Tony lied poorly, as Loki eyed him like a hawk would its prey.

"Anthony, are you _intoxicated?"_

"No, absolutely not. It's a Sunday afternoon, that would be… entirely inappropriate." Tony took a moment before settling on the description, using the bench top to haul himself to his feet.

"You smell like whiskey." Loki returned flatly.

"Scotch." Tony amended.

Loki's face screwed up in fury.

"You gave me your _word,_ Stark, that you would deal with this! You vowed that you would stop – "

"It isn't simply a matter of stopping! I'm trying, I really am, but – "

"You are not trying hard enough." Loki hissed venomously. "You thought I was going out, and so here you are, emptying the contents of the liquor cabinet at the first given opportunity!"

"Okay, so I'm not trying that hard." Tony admitted. "But I'll start dealing with my self-destruction the moment you start dealing with yours!"

The god of mischief's confusion was almost believable, so well was the expression feigned, his shock entirely internalized.

"I have not the slightest clue to what you refer – "

"STOP LYING TO ME!" Tony roared, the alcohol fueling his anger, and he swiped out at the drained whiskey glass on the counter.

It flew across the room and shattered on impact with the polished concrete floor, the shards glittering like stars. Loki flinched.

"You can't lie to my face the way you do with everyone else." Tony stated impassively. "You might think you can, but you can't."

Loki stared at him, his chartreuse eyes analytical, sharp. His brow smoothed from its frown as he enunciated crisply:

"I am not lying."

Tony moved so quickly, and so entirely without warning, that Loki did not have time to brush him away or step back. The man reached for the god's sleeve and in one swift motion yanked the cuff back, revealing several inches of forearm. The skin on the underside of his wrist was laced with half-healed cuts. They were not the fine lines of a mind in meticulous decomposition, but were deep and uneven; the angry strokes of pink looked almost hastily inflicted, as though their placement had been a matter of great urgency.

Loki's face lit up with shock and he pushed Tony's hands away, firmly tugging the sleeve back down to cover the cuts.

"How dare you?" he stammered, as an ugly crimson blush crept onto the snowy pallor of his cheeks.

"Don't expect me to solve my problems when you can't solve yours." Tony responded guiltlessly. "But my practices are harmless compared to yours. I self-medicate. I like to feel numb, that's all."

"That is precisely the problem, Stark. I _always_ feel numb." Loki panted. "On occasion, I need to feel pain - to feel anything at all!"

"Really? Fascinating." Tony stated with sarcastic enthusiasm, nodding vigorously. "So I suppose because you can _justify_ your self-harm, that makes it perfectly okay. I see it now."

"Oh, and do you not justify your drinking with the idea of removing the nightmares, the flashbacks? Or perhaps you would rather blame your father for the habit." Loki snapped.

"Well, all that proves is that we both have daddy issues." Tony returned sharply.

"I swear, Stark, I will rip out your throat and – " Loki began, his ire swelling like a tidal wave.

"Oh, please." Tony scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You aren't angry at me – you're angry at yourself for letting me find out."

"I beg to differ. I am quite far beyond anger with you." Loki contradicted, fists clenched.

"Yeah, you are, aren't you?" Tony agreed with a humorless smirk. "But still, that isn't even a fraction of how furious you are at yourself, as if you weren't already. You really hate yourself, don't you, you masochistic bastard?"

"Wouldn't you?" he replied scathingly.

"Obviously not, considering I'm in love with you." Tony returned, but Loki would not grant his drunken words one degree of worth, no matter how romantic. Instead, he asked hollowly:

"How long have you known… about the scars?"

"A few weeks." he answered. "But what I don't understand is how you honestly expected me _not _to find out. I mean, I sleep half a foot away from you every night, did you really think that I'd miss it? And combine that with the fact that about the only time you aren't all dressed and covered up is when you're asleep…"

"Perhaps I expected you to keep your nose to yourself. It has nothing to do with you." Loki huffed indignantly.

"Yeah? Well you were pretty fucking wrong." Tony replied angrily. "And who says it has nothing to do with me?"

"This has been going on for longer than I have known you, and I do not doubt that it will continue long after." Loki replied levelheadedly.

"Do you call that comfort?!" Tony croaked hoarsely. "And, I mean, did you _want_ me to see them? You could have healed those scars any time you wanted. Did you leave them just to torture me?"

"Oddly enough, Stark, the Nine Realms do not revolve around you." Loki snapped. "I do not bother to heal them because they are not worth the energy such a thing would require. As much as this may surprise you, I do not have infinite magic at my disposal – using it is complex and exhausting, and I would rather save it for something more worthwhile."

"More worthwhile?" Tony repeated sarcastically. "Like what?"

"Like healing youwhen you arrive home every other night, bruised and battered from your missions with SHIELD."

Tony opened his mouth to reply, but did a double-take and swallowed the retort.

"You _save_ your magic for me?" he asked, frowning.

Loki shrugged, and nodded nonchalantly.

"I will kill you. I will actually kill you." Tony stated matter-of-factly, wide eyes blinking quickly. "If I ever hear that you are saving your magic for me again, it'll be your turn to get thrown out of this tower, understood? Now heal those cuts."

Loki considered arguing, but obviously thought the better of it. He rolled back his sleeve and held a hand tentatively to the skin of his wrist, which gleamed ever so slightly in the characteristic greenish light of his magic. He repeated this for the opposite arm, looking up expectantly at Tony as he folded back the second sleeve.

"Good." Tony said with satisfaction. "But if I ever see anything like this again, I'll – "

"What? Slice me up yourself?" Loki suggested snidely.

"No. I'll just do the very best I can to get alcohol poisoning." Tony returned, picking up the whisky bottle and taking a swig, eyes sparkling challengingly.

"You jest." he accused.

"Not even a little." came the response, without hesitation. "If you're going down, I'm coming down with you. It's both of us, or neither."

"Self-sacrifice, as well as self-destruction. Very admirable." Loki responded, rolling his eyes lightly.

"Yeah, well what can I say? I'm a good Samaritan." Tony replied, equally sarcastically, and he contemplated the half-emptied bottle before holding it out to Loki. "Want a drink?"

The god's mouth fell open in indignation, but he closed it forcefully. As he reached out for the bottle, however, Tony snatched it back swiftly.

"I'll swap you – the bottle for your daggers." he suggested.

Loki pursed his lips disapprovingly, but reluctantly reached into his pocket and drew out the small, sheathed knife. Tony snatched the blade out of his hands before happily passing over the bottle.

"Look at that, what a beautiful metaphorical exchange." Tony said sardonically, tucking the dagger into his jeans.

Loki replied by bringing the bottle to his lips and draining the contents in one gulp.

"I hate you." Tony stated with mock bitterness.

"Give us a kiss." Loki replied, with a smile far more dazzling and genuine than Tony had seen in months.


End file.
